CHAPTER ONE: LEYLA “Wake up, Skylar!” hissed my older sister, Robin. “It’s already eight-fifteen!” My groggy eyes adjusted to the early morning light streaming through the window and I glanced at the clock. She was right. I had twenty minutes to get dressed, have breakfast, and brush my teeth and hair. I dragged myself out of bed. I was exhausted. I had stayed up till two o’clock reading a great book about the fall of the Romanov empire. And now I would have to pay the price. I sighed. Today was the first day of seventh grade. I wasn’t nervous. I’m never nervous on the first day of school. It’s always the same. The work’s easy, and I never make any friends. I don’t have any friends outside of school either. Unlike Robin. Robin is popular, and has more friends than you can count. Actually, she has fans. That’s all she wants really. Fans. The morning was a rush, and I just managed to catch the bus, but only by running as fast as I could to the bus stop. I was panting as the bus doors opened to admit me. I stepped inside and found a seat by the window in the second row I sleepily stared at the head in front of me. It took me a minute to realize what was different. The head in front of me was wearing a headscarf. It shocked me, but that wasn’t the only thing wrong. She was sitting in the first row. Kids here will tease you mercilessly if you sit in the front row. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never been able to quite understand the kids that go to Newberry Middle School. But I’ve got a basic idea. They aren’t motivated, and because of that, don’t try to live up to their full potential. Because I was different, I got teased a whole lot. But it didn’t faze me. Part of it was the fact that they may tease me, but I know that it is not bad to be a nerd or globally aware. I’m proud that I’m not like them. The girl turned around to look at me. Her eyes were big and brown, with long, dark lashes. The brown was almost black. Like a doe’s eyes, or coffee without cream. Her eyes were big and brown, with long dark lashes “Hi,” she said. It was almost a whisper. “Hi,” I squeaked back, but she had already turned around. A new girl. And she had promise. CHAPTER TWO Newberry Middle School had seven rooms: the sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-grade classrooms, the multipurpose room, the office, and the girls’ and boys’ bathrooms. I know it seems a little sad, but Newberry is a small town. A very small town. If you live here, your great-great-grandparents probably did too. It’s so small, the town sign says Newberry, Population: 514. So the seven rooms accommodate the ninety students just fine. Today, I trudged into Mrs. Park’s seventh-grade classroom. So did the Muslim girl. I looked around the room. I was sitting at a table in the back, next to Darcy. That was OK. The Muslim girl was sitting at a table across the room. Mrs. Park walked in, her purple heels tapping the floor as she closed her door and walked to her desk. “Welcome back, to another hopefully great year at Newberry Middle School.” Silence followed her words. “Now before we start, let me introduce you to Leyla Aghdashloo, who will be joining our class this year. Leyla, how about you come up and introduce yourself?” Leyla walked up to the front of the room and stared awkwardly at all of us. “Hi,” she said sheepishly. She took a deep breath and started over, this time sounding more confident. “Hi, I just moved here from San Francisco; I live with my mom and dad and three sisters who are fourteen, ten, and seven. I like to read, write, and act. I also love being out in nature.” She walked quickly back to her seat. “Thank you, Leyla, we are fabulously lucky to have you in our class this year,” said Mrs. Park, her smile wide and fake. “Now what did you all do this summer?” Hands shot up, including Leyla’s. “Let me introduce you to Leyla Aghdashloo, who will be joining our class this year” I put my head down on my desk and listened to the other kids talk. All I had done all summer was read. And sing in the bathroom when no one was home. I love to sing. I could spend my whole summer just singing. But I’m too scared to let anyone know I do. It means so much to me, I would die if just one person gave me the least bit of criticism. This is a big problem for me as my mom is a trained singer. She doesn’t sing professionally, but she knows a lot about it. She says her criticism is her way of saying I’m good, and she just wants to make me better. That if I wasn’t, she wouldn’t even bother. But I know this is not true because of Robin. Robin is tone deaf. She has no range. Her voice wavers when she sings. But she gets criticism. Lots and lots of it. So me, I resort to singing in the bathroom, until I have enough courage to come out of my shell. The teacher’s voice jerked me out of my thoughts. “Leyla, I’m sorry, but headscarves are not allowed in school.” Leyla didn’t move. “Leyla, please take off your headscarf.” Leyla sat as still as a stone, her eyes on Mrs. Park. “Leyla, if you do not take off your headscarf, then I will have to send you to the office.” Mrs. Park looked angry now. “Very well then,” and Leyla got up and walked right out. No one that I have ever seen has been sent to the office on the first
Company
Smoke blackens your face, Bold paintings line the creases in your skin, Twisting and turning in the crooks of your elbows. In the darkness you crouch, An animal with dark cheeks and sunken eyes, Next to the smoldering embers of your fire. I see you skulking half hidden in the shadows, The whites of your eyes made clear to me, In the reflecting shadows. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, Beside me I feel you creep from the woods and do the same, I understand. I feel your spirit tingling my skin, Open-mouthed I see the stars with the wonder of my ancestors, Beside the dust of your ancient bones. Maya Koretzky, 12Thornton, Pennsylvania
Surprises at Sunrise
I drowsily woke up to the voice of my sister, Emma, instructing me to wake up. I lifted one of my heavy eyelids and saw that my bouncy sister was hovering over me, fully dressed and ready for the day. She held two buckets in one hand, and in another was a stack of clothes for me. In the back of my head, I vaguely wondered what my sister was doing, bursting energetically into my bedroom at six o’clock on a vacation. Suddenly, something clicked. As I slowly crept out of my warm and comfortable bed, I remembered that every morning our family vacationed to Florida, my sister and I had a tradition of running out to the beach to see the beautiful early morning sunrise. The thought of this tradition fully awakened me, and I carelessly threw on my clothes, grabbed a couple of light windbreakers, and took the extra bucket from my sister. Emma and I dashed out the condo door, sprinted down three flights of steps, and then finally arrived at the wooden boardwalk that led to the beach. We skipped over it eagerly, and then plopped ourselves down on the cool, soothing sand, only a few feet away from the receding tide. Emma and I had made it just in time. As we faced the vast ocean and gazed out into the deep blue sky, the new sun was just becoming visible. The sky changed into a dazzling orange hue, and splotches of pink, yellow, and blue were overhead. I watched in amazement and was awed at the natural beauty of the Earth. After the sky had reached a pastel blue color, my sister and I decided to stroll along the shoreline. We each held a blue bucket that was empty at the moment, but would soon fill up with unique shells and smooth sand dollars. During our ten-minute walk, Emma and I were too overcome with the beauty of the scene to say anything to each other. Just as we were about to turn back, something caught my interest. Barely fifteen feet away from the coast was a sandbar which was clustered with a large number of seagulls. The seagulls appeared to be circled around some inanimate object. Each gull was screeching at the top of its lungs. Although I had seen many seagulls before, I had never seen anything quite like this. I suggested to my sister that we discover what the commotion was all about. We waded out to the small sandbar. As I got closer to the rambunctious birds, I noticed that they were pecking at little brownish things. Emma ran to the cluster of gulls, and a few of the birds decided to leave, but most remained. Now I could clearly make out what the birds were fighting over. Ten baby loggerhead sea turtles were helplessly sprawled on the wet sand. The seagulls’ sharp beaks were pecking at them angrily, and a couple of the turtles were even dangling from the gulls’ mouths. I sympathized with the powerless little turtles who were struggling to survive. I wanted to help them somehow, but I couldn’t think of a way. I had tried yelling at the gulls, but they wouldn’t budge. Instead, they squawked back at us, as if they were laughing at our pitiful attempts to save the turtles. I sympathized with the powerless little turtles who were struggling to survive After five painful minutes of furrowed eyebrows, I finally decided to run through the huddle of seagulls, despite my fear of the birds, and try to scare at least half of them away. I recounted my plan to myself over and over, and came to the conclusion that it was the best plan I had. I took a deep breath, and trying not to think about the needle-sharp beaks of the gulls, ran through the circle of screeching birds. Several flustered gulls retreated into the sky, but a good portion of them stayed rooted to the sand. I decided to take another shot at it, remembering the saying, “Failure only occurs if you don’t try again.” Keeping this quote in mind, I attempted again, and only a few of the gulls remained. I knew I was getting closer to my objective. With Emma’s help on my third shot, we were finally successful. My sister and I hurried over to the remaining baby turtles, which were still struggling on their backs in the sand, confused by what had just happened to them. I was hesitant about moving any of them, since I knew that loggerheads were a threatened species. I also remembered that I had read that sea turtles had to make the journey to the ocean by themselves, so they could recognize their native land when returning from the sea to mate. Anyway, I knew that if we just placed them back in the ocean, the movement of the tide would be sure to trap the turtles back on the sandbar. Emma and I knew that we had to make a move, or else the turtles’ chance of survival would diminish to almost nothing when the seagulls returned. After brainstorming together, we came up with a reliable plan. Emma would run up to our condo to fetch our dad, who would call the Wildlife Society. This way we figured that the turtles would be safe. I waded back to the beach and kept a close watch on the sandbar, watching for any signs of high tide. I stretched out on the warm sand and waited for the return of my sister. As I was about to shut my eyes, I felt something small scuttle over my arm. Thinking it was a crab, I jumped up in surprise. I looked down and saw a little brownish creature. I peered closer at it and saw that it was another baby sea turtle, eagerly crawling toward the blue ocean. I looked around in the sand and saw several more sea turtles, also on
A Bouquet
The oily paste on my lips tastes like dried lotion as my tongue shapes the outside of my shocking red lips. My grandmother applies the red tube that was once hers when she was my age. As she carefully brightens the pink shade of skin that covers my teeth, I feel grown up and professional, like a businesswoman or better yet, like a prima ballerina. Then I skip off backstage. As the soft, soothing music fades, the perfectly postured ten-year-olds tiptoe off the stage. Behind them trails a mysterious blackness as the deep red curtains slide to meet the hard wooden stage. The teacher rushes my class of five-year-olds into two parallel lines. In front of me lies the empty stage, inviting me and my fellow ballerinas to dominate, within seconds. The uncomfortable feeling of the lipstick fades and the butterflies begin to settle in, fluttering as if they are contained in my stomach, and will do anything to escape. In the back of my mind, I hear the hushes and last-minute fixings of costumes. One ballet slipper brushes in front of the other in time with the soft music playing throughout the high school auditorium. I look out into the audience in search of my mother and grandmother. All I can see is black, except for the occasional flash of a loving parent’s camera capturing the moment of their child’s first ballet recital. My body wants to dance. I don’t have to think about what the next step will be. I let my body take control of my mind. The familiar face of my ballet teacher is visible. She is perched on her knees right in front of the stage. Her pink cheeks, thick blue eye shadow and bright-colored lipstick stand out in the darkness. She motions the next step with her hands in case we forget. She raises her two pointer fingers up to her pink cheeks and emphasizes her cheesy smile. I know that I can’t smile any wider. The smile on my face is twice as broad as hers. I hope that Mother is proud of me What could make a five-year-old dancer any happier? I have my mother’s full attention, I am wearing makeup like a big girl, and I am dressed in a pink leotard with a rainbow ribbon in my hair to match my tutu. A burst of satisfaction shudders from my pointed toes to my dirty-blond hair as a chill goes up my spine. I am so happy. I hope that Mother is proud of me. The music makes a subtle conclusion and I flutter off the stage like the big ten-year-old ballerinas did before me. The whole dance feels like a blur, like when you look at your reflection in still water. As I step backstage, the smell of gooey chocolate-chip cookies fills the air. As I go to join my friends, my mind is at ease. I can’t wait to see Mommy and Grandmother’s faces; they will be so proud of me, their big girl ballerina. Grandparents, mothers, fathers, siblings and friends start to pour into the room. Hugs are received. All I can see is pink and red roses, yellow daisies, sunflowers, buttercups, green stems and purple lilacs. The flowers perfume the theater like the smell of a spring day. My eyes search wildly for my proud mother and grandmother. All around me I see each pink ballerina cradling her bouquet of flowers like a mother holding her precious child. A sudden rush of panic fills my eyes. “Esther.” I hear my name being called. “Mommy,” I reply, rushing into her arms as if I am a puppy running to receive a treat. My eyes glance over to my grandmother. Her hands are empty except for her handbag, which holds the makeup. My mother smells of citrus lotion, but the familiar smell of flowers is missing. There are no flowers. Was I not good enough? Did I mess up? Why didn’t I get flowers? Do Mommy and Grandmother not love me? As these questions flow through my head, it feels like a big apple is beginning to form in my throat. The tears begin to stream down my pink cheeks. Each drop tastes like a salty glass of water. My arms are empty; I have no baby to cradle. “Esther, sweetie, what’s the matter? You were so good on stage, why are you crying?” “Flowers,” I said, as I started to sob uncontrollably. “Flowers, how come you don’t have any flowers for me? Where are my flowers?” My disappointment shuddered throughout my body. I could hear the calm voice of my grandmother as she told me that she didn’t know to bring flowers because it was her first time at one of my recitals; she just didn’t know. Her words went in one ear and out the other. My mother also was upset and said that this was the first recital in our family and so she did not know about this tradition. She wished that the teacher or a friend had told her beforehand. Why didn’t they sell bouquets of flowers in the lobby? My mother scooped me into her arms. My tears got absorbed into her green knitted sweater as if it was a sponge. As we walked out to the car to go home, my grandmother secretly picked a bouquet of flowers from the blooming rhododendron bushes on the manicured grounds. She told me that I was her perfect ballerina. This made the waterfall on my face run even faster. All that mattered at the moment was that I was the only performer who did not have any flowers. As I look back on that day of my first dance recital, I realize that the bouquet my grandmother had picked for me was the most meaningful and loving bouquet that I would ever receive. Each flower that she picked was a flower of love. Ever since that day, my mother never attended a recital without
The Angel’s Command
The Angel’s Command by Brian Jacques; Philomel Books: New York, 2003; $23.99 I was excited yet worried throughout most of this book. When the La Petite Marie first set sail they were being followed by the Diablo Del Mar. I thought at first that the La Petite Marie was going to be caught, and then they might have been sunk. The little boy named Ben was a very smart person. Even though his body did not get older, he did. He was very wise and it was easy to see throughout the story. I always get told that I am very mature for my age. I tend to get along with older kids better than kids that are my age, so in a way I kind of act like Ben. I thought it was interesting when he thought of the idea for the La Petite Marie to sail into the rocks off course at nighttime to avoid getting captured by the Diablo Del Mar. When I went to a mountain training camp in September, we played Capture the Flag in the woods at night. It started to rain and it was hard to see. I found a little ditch that I could crawl in to get to the other team’s side without being noticed. It worked for a while but I was eventually captured. What Ben did reminded me of that. One of the most exciting parts of the story was when the La Petite Marie was attacked by the British privateer. I thought that the La Petite Marie would be sunk, but they managed to get away. The rear of the ship was blown away and a few men were killed. The captain, Ned, and Ben were still alive. This reminded me of when America invaded Iraq. Many men died, including Americans. My brother went to that war and now he’s safe at home. My favorite character in the story was the dog, Ned. He was a grown black Labrador that was very intelligent. I admired Ned because he watched over Ben and was very protective. Ned and Ben had a bond that was like two brothers. They had the ability to communicate with each other telepathically. My brother and I live with separate parents, but we still get along just like two brothers normally do. I think we get along just like Ben and Ned. Another one of my favorite characters was Thuron. He was the captain of the La Petite Marie. He was a kind captain who believed Ned and Ben were good luck. When he was in a bar, he was getting tricked by the captain of the Diablo Del Mar. When Ned and Ben walked in, Ben saw that the captain was being tricked so he put up all of his gold. Thuron won the bet, and that’s why he thought Ben and Ned were lucky. He even yelled at his crew members if they yelled at Ben or Ned. He reminded me of my science teacher because my science teacher is the nicest teacher I have, and he respects all of his students equally. Overall, I thought this was one of the most interesting books I have ever read. The characters were well thought-out and each had unique personalities, especially Ben and Ned. The characters remind me of people I know, so I was able to relate to them very well. I like how they have a brotherly bond which keeps them together. I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading adventure stories. This story holds the reader’s attention all the way to the end. Alexander J. Gore, 13 Wheat Ridge, Colorado
Second Chance Ride
“You’re fired!!!” Mr. Douglas said to Paul Greenhorn, a nineteen-year-old boy, after his barn had caught fire and burned to ashes. “I never want to see you on my ranch ever again!!!” he said as he walked off towards the house. “But Mr. Douglas,” Paul said as he ran after Mr. Douglas, “please give me another chance.” “No!” Mr. Douglas said, as he kept walking towards the house. “But it was an accident,” Paul said. “No!” “But I need this job,” Paul mumbled. Mr. Douglas turned around real quick and said, “No! Now get off my ranch before I have you arrested for trespassing!” He then walked into the house. Paul had no car or horse, so he just began to walk down the road. When he worked for Mr. Douglas he used one of his horses, but now he had nothing. Paul had light brown hair and stood six feet tall. His skin was tan and he wore blue jeans and a white shirt. His parents were killed in a plane crash, so Paul lived by himself. When he worked for Mr. Douglas, he always slept in the barn. He didn’t like sleeping in a house. He liked to be by himself. Paul walked alongside the road a ways until he stumbled upon a ranch, with a sign on a fence that read, “In Need of Ranch Hands.” He walked up to the house and knocked on the door. A man answered the door and asked, “Can I help you?” “Yeah, I’m looking for a job and I heard you were hiring,” Paul said. “Oh, that’s true. What’s your name, son?” the man asked. “Paul, Paul Greenhorn,” Paul said. “Paul Greenhorn! Sorry, son, I don’t hire barn burners,” he said as he slammed the door in Paul’s face. Paul then went on to more ranches but it was the same thing; they didn’t trust Paul. Paul went to one more ranch and saw another sign that read, “Need Ranch Hands, Talk to Mr. Wade Sullivan.” He walked up the driveway, walked inside the barn, and saw a man stacking hay Paul walked up to the man and asked, “Mr. Sullivan?” The man turned around and replied, “Why, yes. What can I do for you?” “I’m looking for a job,” Paul said. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Have you had any experience in this line of work?” Wade asked. “Yes sir. I worked down the road for Mr. Douglas,” Paul said. “Didn’t his barn just recently burn down?” “Yeah, so I guess you heard. And guess you also heard that people said I caused it. “Maybe.” “Well I’ll be leaving now. With all you’ve heard you probably think I did it too,” Paul said as he turned around. “You’re hired,” Mr. Sullivan said. Paul quickly turned around and said, “But Mr. Sullivan, don’t you care I burned down a whole barn?” “So?” “So, that same thing might happen to you.” “Son, let me tell you something. I don’t care what you’ve done. As long as you can put in a good day’s work. It doesn’t matter to me at all.” “Thanks, Mr. Sullivan.” “Please call me Wade.” “Thanks, Wade,” Paul said as he turned around and started to walk away. “Wait a minute. I don’t even know your name.” Paul quickly turned around. “Oh, Paul, Paul Greenhorn.” “Say, do you have a horse?” “No sir.” “Well I’ll have to get you one from the pasture. Come on,” Wade said as he walked out of the barn. Paul quickly ran after him. As they were walking out to the pasture, Paul noticed all of the trees and fields. He noticed how big the ranch was. And there weren’t just horses at the ranch. Paul saw little chickens running around. He heard the cattle mooing from the field. He saw goats and sheep. In addition, he even saw a couple of pigs slopping around in the mud. When they reached the pasture Paul saw many horses running around. Two of the geldings were fighting lead rope, and brought her to Paul. “Paul, this is Jackie, one of our most trusted riding horses,” Wade said. Paul walked to Jackie and petted her on the neck. Jackie was a bay with black hoofs and black socks. She had a little white star on her head. Her mane and tail were long. When she walked, she walked gracefully. “She’s beautiful,” Paul said. “Paul, this is Jackie, one of our most trusted riding horses” “Come on, I’ll show you where the saddles are,” Wade said as he led Jackie into the barn. Paul couldn’t believe how nice Wade was. Wade had it all; a nice farm, sweet horses and many animals. What more could a guy want? Wade took Jackie into the barn and tied her up to the stall. “The saddles are in the little room over there,” Wade said, pointing towards a little room next to the hay. “When you’ve saddled her up follow that trail over there. It will lead you to some broken fences. You’ll find some new poles and wire there too. Good luck,” Wade said as he walked out of the barn. “OK, Jackie. Let’s saddle you up,” Paul said. Paul went into the tack room and came back out with a brush. He took the brush and brushed all the dirt off Jackie’s back. He then went back into the tack room and brought out a saddle, a saddle blanket, a bridle and bit, and a pair of reins. He took the saddle blanket and placed it on Jackie’s back, he then took the saddle and put it on top of the saddle blanket. He grabbed the bridle, put the bit in her mouth, and then slid the bridle up her head. He then took the reins and hooked them onto the end of the bit. He tightened the saddle, untied her, and started down the trail. Along the trail, he saw many birds chirping away.
Frog Song
I step out into the clouded dusk the dark light pushes up against my skin the steady contribution of frog song pours into the air, making the measuring cup of the night overflow. the rock is cold beneath me, reminds me to shiver. the last light swiftly falls underneath the trees and I capture it in angular lines on this paper. the air grows darker and huddles nearer. stirs, exhales in one gust of breath, anticipates the night. the last strip of gold is disappearing and here, on the outskirts of the sanctuary of the porch light, my shadow is huge on the ground. slapped across my page, the dark mimic of my pencil waves. now the sun remains only as a half-inch-wide ribbon of dull orange beyond the trees and the frogs announce the sun will set tomorrow, too. but I am hunched here on the edge of the world, and the sun just fell off. Nicole Guenther, 13 Vancouver, Washington
My Piano
I sit at my piano. It lies in my family’s living room, covered in dust. Not the neglected type of dust, but the vintage, rustic type of dust, the dust that gives the piano a cozy, charming feeling. I run my fingers over the old white keys. Now I run my hand over the old chestnut top, getting a handful of dust. Rain knocks at the windows and I can hear Kelsey crying in her crib. Kelsey is my baby sister. I do get jealous of her, but I can do something she can’t; play the piano. I open the parchment pages of my music book and, all at once, my fingers fly. Dancing on their ivory carpet, my fingertips can’t stop and there is no need for my music book, but I can’t tear my hands away from the piano to take it down. I’m flying, soaring, away from Kelsey’s crying, the pounding of the rain, the rustling of the angry trees outside. All I can hear is the sweet hum of my piano’s breath, and I can almost imagine myself in a white-and-black- checkerboard room, with only me and my piano. And now my prancing fingers, cantering across the creamy white road, like ten brown horses, pulling the purple carriage of my sweater sleeve, have come to their destination. The black notes are gone from the paper, the song has ended. I rest my hands and breathe in the smell of the dust that has risen from the movement of my ten steeds, pounding the road, leaving tiny footprints of dust. I sigh, and carefully rum the pages of my music book, preparing for my next routine. Slowly, I place my hands on the board, and suddenly, there are no hands, but two fluttering tan sparrows. Their little calls match with the sighs of my piano, and again all I can hear is the singing from the chestnut base. The sparrows flutter from key to key, without any movement; just sweet, free flight. This song is shorter than the first, and my birds land soon, landing by the edge of my denim jean lake. I would’ve started another journey to that checkerboard room, my fingertips ready to turn yet another page in my music, but Momma comes in, Kelsey in her arms, wrapped up in her little pink Polartec babysuit. Obviously, Daddy has already announced that I am going to play, because the audience claps loudly Momma smiles and says to me, “That was good practicing, Brandi. I heard you from Kelsey’s nursery Do you want to take a walk with us?” “You’re taking Kelsey out in this rain?” I ask. Momma nods and says with exasperation, “I can’t get her to sleep, so I’m hoping maybe a walk will tire her out. Are you coming?” I nod and pull on my coat, boots, and scarf. Then, I run to get my umbrella. Passing the living room, I silently bid my old piano goodbye, and my toffee-colored horses crawl back into their fleece stables, my pockets, and rest. My piano is my friend. The piano is not my only friend. My best friend is Paula Leigh, although I just call her Paul, like everyone calls me Brandi, even though my real name is Brianna May. Momma and Daddy named me that because Daddy liked the name Brie and Momma liked May, and they both liked Anna. So my name is actually three combined. Anyway, Paul is my best friend, and also my neighbor. She’s three years older than me, but we’re like sisters. Sometimes she chaffs my love of piano, especially when we can’t play because of practice. I don’t mind though, because I can razz Paul about her love for trumpet, and she practices just as much as I do. We are friends because we both understand each other’s love for music. We both know how important music can be, to two kids like us, at least. The piano is my key to friendship. After Momma, Kelsey, and I are home from our walk, it is 11:12. Kelsey is asleep. After Momma puts her in her crib, she asks me if I want to go shopping with her. “No,” I say as I pour myself a glass of orange juice. She just smiles and says, “Too bad, hon. You have to come. It’s for a surprise.” So I put on my coat, hat, scarf, and boots again and we go into the car. Momma drives us to the mall and she leads me inside. “What’s the surprise?” I ask, for I love surprises. Momma smiles again and shakes her head. Finally, we stop in front of a little shop that says Dresses and Suits for the Little Folk. We go here every year to get a Christmas dress for me, and now Kelsey. I know this is only part of the surprise. When I follow Momma in, I see frills and bows and frou-frous. Two tall, chattering ladies come over immediately. They talk so fast that I cannot understand them. Eventually, they lead Momma and me to a tiny dressing room. It is amazing that we can all fit. One woman has a pile of dresses in her hands, and the other has a hairbrush, a mirror, and a pile of hair ribbons. Now the ladies pull off my sweater and my pants. I stand there in my underwear and undershirt, and I feel like a doll. The two woman are pulling dresses over my head, and then pulling them off. I’m so glad when they leave, that I don’t even see what dress they are ringing up. Momma smiles and says, “Well, as soon as we get the dress, I can tell you what your surprise is!” So we go up front and the ladies hand us the dress. As soon as we get out of the store, I pounce on Momma, “What’s the surprise?! The surprise?!!” Momma smiles knowingly and says, “You’re going to
Roses on the Water
Two girls were walking along, in sweatshirts, jeans and flip-flops, discussing the meaning of life. “. . . now, lip gloss needs to be applied liberally, every few hours or so. Do you think this eye shadow is too bright? Omigosh, I saw the cutest pair of jeans in that shop. Are those new earrings?” I didn’t answer my friend, just basked in her flow of words and the sea breeze blowing in from the west, glad that it wasn’t freezing, raining, or both. Having both finished a giant essay, we were ready to enjoy what remained of the Sunday afternoon, walking down to the beach for some ice cream from the Creamery. A seagull flew overhead, a splash of white against the gray sky. “What d’you think, Kate?” asked Meg. “Mm. What? Oh, right. You should go with the pink,” I answered. Thunk-skip, swish, thunk-skip swish, two pairs of flip-flops flopping against the pavement. We walked down the waterfront and to the pier, planning to visit the aquarium and our favorite shark, Rosie, who was approximately three centuries old and counting. The bell over the door tinkled softly as we went in. Meg headed straight toward the touch tank. She scooped up Pickle, the sea cucumber, and planted a large kiss on him. I stared. “You know, if you wanted to kiss something that badly, I’m sure Willy would be happy to oblige.” Meg sighed. “It’s not for that, stupid. Sea cucumbers are for good luck. I need all the help I can get. That final on the Renaissance is next week!” “Oh. OK then.” I hesitantly brushed my lips against Piclde’s slimy back, smelling salt water. I gently put him back in the water. Pickle, being rather intelligent for a sea cucumber, started squirming away, as fast as any sea cucumber could, from the edge of the tank. Next, we went to the shark tank, amused at the little five-year-old who was putting his hand against the tank until a shark swam under it, and running away, shrieking with delight, then coining back to do it again. “Hello, Rosie,” said Meg, addressing a rather stately-looking shark in the back, who was looking, I could’ve sworn, irritably at the five-year-old. We drifted from tank to tank, observing the stately sharks, elegant anemones, and courageous crabs battling with their large claws. Things were mostly quiet except for the hum of the water pumps. The air smelled like old seaweed and a fish market. Over to my right a large fish surged forward to nab that last chunk of fish food before it settled at the bottom, to be eaten by the little mollusks that were employed for just that purpose; their role in life to simply clean up after these giant, messy eaters who left their scraps lying around to be picked up by smaller beings on the food chain. Sure enough, the gluttonous fish had dropped some of its snack, and, sure enough, a competent-looking snail wandered to the spot to clean up. Keep going, little snail. It’s your turn for dinner, I thought. The snail’s pearly white shell moved forward, ambling along at its own place, having no need to rush. Outside, the breeze picked up. A gust of cold air swept through the roundhouse, startling me. I stepped back, stepping on Meg’s foot. “Hey! Watch it!” She poked me. “Let’s get out of here; there might be dolphins out. Besides,” she wrinkled her nose, “it smells like cat food in here.” So we left the aquarium, leaving our Piscean acquaintances, to walk on the pier. A wave hit the stone pillar, making the whole jetty sway. Sea spray hit my face, salty and sweet at the same time. Meg was scanning the horizon, looking for the gray shadow and splash of white that signaled a dolphin pod. She grinned and nudged me. Where? Oh, right, over there. The dolphins leapt over the waves, too far out to swim, but close enough to view from the pier. A foolhardy surfer was getting ready to try and ride a huge wave. I shivered; that wave was huge, and it was not exactly warm on land, so it must have been freezing in the Pacific Ocean. Red? What was red doing among the grays and tans, greens and blues, of the beach? The surfer was successful, turning his board skillfully, yet compared with the dolphins he looked rather stupid, depending on a piece of fiberglass, while the dolphins managed well enough with what they already had. Still, it was an admirable effort, and the surfer was almost to land before he fell off spectacularly, right into the sand. Meg and I started laughing. I looked out to the west, and saw a flash of red. Red? What was red doing among the grays and tans, greens and blues, of the beach? I leaned out over the railing, and saw that the red was actually a bundle of roses, drifting along on the current. Meg had noticed it too. We stood, looking for a long time, as it floated away And that day, though what was actually required for an education had been completed, I learned something: Even among an ancient shark, two girls, the ocean, and a surfer, there is something that breaks the pattern, some slight inconsistency. Red roses from someone’s beautiful garden, maybe from some greenhouse in Indiana, can end up floating on the Pacific Ocean. And that makes me wonder, sometimes, if writing new words, changing the tune, or breaking the pattern can be a good thing after all. Katie Sinclair, 13Manhattan Beach, California Thea Green, 13Marshall, Virginia
The Blue Roan Child
The Blue Roan Child by Jamieson Findlay; Scholastic, Inc.: New York, 2oo4; $16.95 Imagine this: you are an orphan and you work in a horse stable owned by Kind Hulvere. A fierce wild horse and her two colts are brought to the stable. Then the two colts are stolen. It is now up to you, with the help of the wild horse, to save her colts from the powerful Lord Ran. Are you up to the challenge? Well, Syeira was! With nothing but the shirt on her back and the wild horse Arwin she set off to save the colts. Along the way, she and Arwin meet many friends, a few dangerous foes, and tons of adventure! When I first looked at this book, I knew I was going to enjoy it because it was about horses. I have been riding horses for about six years and I love horses and horse books. After the first few pages I was hooked, because The Blue Roan Child combined horses with mystery, magic, adventure, and wonderful writing. One of my favorite parts is when Syeira and Arwin have to travel through the Forest of Deire. In it they meet a man named Sir Gemynd who drinks a concoction made out of a plant called Pale Madeleine. The Pale Madeleine makes him live in memories. Syeira eats some of this memory plant and she sees her mother’s little yellow bird and hears her mother weeping. But she can’t find her mother, and the bird disappears. They are lost with the Pale Madeleine. They are lost in the past. That part made me think.. What would it be like to stop living in the present and live only in memories? If I was Syeira, would I be tempted to try some Pale Madeleine? Would Syeira ever be the same? I could understand why Syeira would want to eat the Pale Madeleine. She longed for the mother she could barely remember. That made me think about how lucky I am to have both of my parents alive today. I have never felt anything like Syeira’s yearning for her mother, and I am thankful. Even so, the Pale Madeleine was not good. It made Syeira sick and delayed her from her mission. To me, Pale Madeleine symbolizes temptation to do what’s wrong. Even though doing the wrong thing might seem fun or easy at the time, it will always come back to hurt you and will distract you from what you need to do. In this story you can see all sorts of symbols. For instance, I think the yellow bird is a symbol of Syeira’s mother’s love. It gives Syeira strength and courage. Flying horses also appear in this book. I think they are a symbol of Syeira’s dreams, and when they fly to attack King Ran’s city, Syeira’s dreams are flying along with them. The Weerlings, horses damaged by war, represent how horrible war really is. And Arwin. Arwin was Syeira’s way out of a lonely childhood. I think she is a symbol of the type of freedom one can only have galloping on a horse, flying as if you were riding one of Syeira’s dreams. The Blue Roan Child has a satisfying ending in which Syeira finds out what she is meant to do with her life. Everything adds up to a believable and involving story that will draw you in. I loved The Blue Roan Child, and I definitely recommend it to anyone who likes horses, adventure, or just plain good stories. Reina Gattuso, 12Milford, New Jersey
Maikua
Once there was a strong woman who was great at hunting, fishing, and all the other manly things. But she didn’t have the patience to learn the delicate art of sewing baskets, dyeing clothes, or any of the things the women did. Her name was Maikua. Maikua had flowing black hair, and brown eyes and skin. None of the men liked Maikua. When she went hunting with them, they would say, “We don’t need your help. Why don’t you go home.” Maikua never listened to these men. She would go out and catch as many birds as she could carry. When they got home, the other men and women would fill their stomachs with her catch and leave the scraps for her. The other women didn’t think much of her either. Whenever she stayed home when the men were hunting (which wasn’t very often), the women would say, “Why aren’t you out hunting? Maybe if you tried harder you could catch a piece of fur.” Maikua would just ignore them, and go on shooting her bows and arrows at a practice target. One day Maikua went out fishing. She caught eight fish, and put them in her basket. When she returned to the village, though, the usual commotion was no more. In fact, she couldn’t see anybody for miles. “Is anybody here?” she called out. The response was, “Is anybody here?” It was just an echo. Maikua realized that everybody had left. She went back to her hut and ate the fresh fish. Then she thought. “Maybe I should go to the mystic mountain,” she said to herself. She set out at dawn. The mountain reached out over the treetops. Maikua started walking. She swam across a river. She swung on vines and she leapt over roots. Finally the mountain lay before her: glowing green trees, gray rocks, and pure white snow. Maikua got out her spear. She sighted a mountain lion in the distance. She crept up the mountainside, and then hid behind a boulder so the lion couldn’t see her. She took a piece of meat out of her basket, and put it out in front of the boulder. The lion ran over and clamped its teeth around the meat. As soon as he did so Maikua had the spear through his head. Maikua had a good lunch and then was on her way. When Maikua got to the top of the mountain, she found a bear. The bear gave her a cup made out of leaves. The bear said, “Drink the water that lies in the cup.” As she drank, a stairway started forming. When the last drop of water was finished, the stairway reached all the way to the tip of the clouds. The bear motioned for her to climb the stairs. When Maikua got to the top of the stairs, she couldn’t speak. Not just because there was a village before her; but because in this village, she saw women coming home with fish and deer, and men sitting in their huts weaving baskets and taking care of the young ones. When the last drop of water was finished, the stairway reached all the way to the tip of the clouds A woman walked over to Maikua. “Who are you?” Maikua asked. “I am Korto, the head of our village,” the woman answered. “Let me show you around.” Korto showed Maikua her hut and the meat storage room and more. After the tour Maikua asked, “Why are things so different here?” “This is the way it has always been,” Korto said, “for as long as I can remember. Now you should get some sleep. You look very tired.” Maikua walked slowly back to her hut. She was thinking about this strange yet wonderful village as she climbed through the door of the hut and curled up on her bed. After a week Maikua was already a hero. The men adored her, and the women looked up to her. She filled the meat storage room with fish and game she had caught, and was happier than she had ever been. But a few weeks later, she announced that it was time to leave. The night before Maikua was to leave there was a big celebration. The finest meats were prepared, and toasts were made. There was singing and dancing. The noise was very powerful. At the end of the evening, Korto called everyone to attention. Everyone stood in a circle, facing Korto. She sat straight in her chair, and then said, “I think we owe Maikua a wish.” Everyone cheered. Maikua was stunned. “What is your wish?” Korto asked. Maikua thought for a moment, then exclaimed, “I know what I want. I want to never run out of arrows.” “Everlasting arrows, eh. I’ll see what I can do,” Korto smiled. Then she pointed her finger at Maikua and a bag appeared on Maikua’s shoulder—a bag filled with arrows. Maikua thanked everybody and went back to her hut. She went to sleep. But around midnight she snuck out of bed with the bag on her shoulders, and headed back down the stairway out of the clouds. When she came out of the clouds back into her own world, the first thing she saw was smoke coming out of the treetops. Maikua ran as fast as she could down the mountain and into a forest. She came into a clearing and saw people. They were her people, her town in rags, sitting around a fire. When the people saw her they were so happy they crowded around her, hugging her. “You’re back!” they shouted. “What’s happening?” Maikua asked. A man came up to her and said, “We need you. Your skills keep us alive.” Maikua didn’t know what to say. She was so happy that they had accepted her. All the women and the men apologized and welcomed Maikua back. From then on, hunting was valued in men and in women. Josh Miller, 10 Portland, Oregon Laura
Samantha and the Stag
A white tail bobbed in the bushes and Samantha’s ice-skate skidded to a messy stop. The girl made no sudden moves. Slowly, she lifted her head and took a cautious step towards the edge of the pond, which lay in the center of the pasture. The animal before her, a cinnamon-colored stag, stood motionless. She wished to gape openly, to move towards him and stroke his flawless coat, fondle his large ears, touch his immense antlers and follow him wherever he would lead her. She felt somehow connected to the creature, and wanted to be nearer to him. Instead, for fear of frightening the animal, she tore her gaze from his form and advanced another step, gliding smoothly towards the edge of the ice. The deer looked as though he was preparing to bound away, but he could not seem to decide whether or not to stay or go. He stood, frozen for a few more moments of indecision, swaying one way as if to say “I will leave,” and the other way as if to say “I will go.” Samantha, trying to avoid looking at the creature and afraid to move any further in his direction, clicked the blade of her ice-skate on the ice. The deer turned his delicate head and shook his antlers vigorously at her. The one small crime she had committed, the clicking of her ice-skate blade, had led him to a decision. He pivoted towards the woods, springing over the field’s rear gate. Trotting a few graceful, prancing steps, he halted and swung around to face her, willing her towards him, pawing the ground for emphasis. She knew she was to go with him, follow him. He wanted to take her somewhere, and the connection she felt to him was strong. She ripped her focus away, briefly reminding the panicking part of her, the part of her that said the buck would not stay, that she would return soon. If she was wrong, the deer would have fled by the time she got back and she could forget she had ever seen him, or even pretend he had been a figment of her infamous wild imagination. She knew she was to go with him, follow him Purposefully, she strode up to the fence on the opposite edge of the pond enclosure, climbing over it and stepping into her paddock. A spotted pony with mischief in his eyes stared at her plaintively. He was looking for food or a treat and saw no reason he should be subtle about his begging. Sam ignored him and gathered a bridle and riding hat off hooks in the small stable. She put the bridle on, fastening the straps and buckles with the ease of many years of practice. Then she fed the pony a sugar cube from her slushy pocket. He eyed the sugar analytically, and extracted it from her palm. Apparently he did not think highly of wet sugar. Carefully, she walked him to the place she had last seen the stag. There he was, holding his head gallantly, as if posing for a photograph he had waited ages to have taken. Sam got as close as she dared and swiftly mounted her pony. This was enough to startle the buck and off he dashed, leaving a trail behind him as he made his way through the stiff grasses of winter. Sam felt an urge she could not control. She had to follow him! The connection she felt to the animal strained, and, with a wave of her arms, Samantha and her pony were chasing after him. They hightailed it over the field fence and raced across the next pasture, following the trail the stag left. Astonishingly, the buck allowed the pair to get increasingly closer. Soon they were inching up alongside him, getting nearer every second. Finally, when they were running nose to nose, the deer distanced himself slightly. Samantha took the hint. The deer did want his own margin of personal space, but did want them to follow him. Sam understood and continued along peaceably behind him. She had a creeping sensation, however, that the comfortable pace wouldn’t last long. Soon enough, she found her unpleasant assumption to be true. She, the pony, and the buck were headed directly for a frozen stream. This posed great danger for the threesome. The stream could not be trusted with their weight! Obviously the deer did not see it, and even with much patience and an enormous amount of coaxing, her pony refused to slow. She wanted to explain the danger, but couldn’t! Her pony was dipping into a peril he could not see, a peril he could not even acknowledge, as he didn’t know it was there! In a panic, Sam yanked on the reins, snapping them from side to side. With her pony’s attention captured, she leaned back and dragged her reins above her head, lifting her pony into a half-rear; the only sensible way to help him recover his footing and keep him out of trouble. The buck, seeing the stream only as he came upon it, made a scrambling effort to stop but failed. His front legs slid off the bank and onto the surface that was the frozen creek. His haunches groped through the snow, searching for a grip, but, over all of the protests of the rest of his body, momentum slid his rear onto the ice as well. Now he had to muster all his strength and any balance he possessed to stand. With a strangling grunt and a heave he was on all fours once more. Before Sam could take note of what was happening, the stag was racing along the creek. With much splaying of his legs and many close calls, the buck made his way along the stream, somehow managing to stay upright. The girl, astonished at these proceedings, sprang into action. She snapped her reins from left to right and achieved a quicker pace. The clever
